Lucid
by svvampy
Summary: Daryl Dixon is left alone by the side of a highway after his motorcycle breaks down. His thoughts wander in the heat, leading him to an encounter with a blond he's spent too long missing. One shot.
He kicked the tire of the motorcycle, the shock of the hit sending tremors up into his foot. He stared at the defeated bike through his stringy bangs. Just four more miles and he would've been back with the group, but of course the motorcycle couldn't make it. He glanced around himself, squinting and blinking out the droplets of sweat dripping into the corners of his eyes. No walkers in sight, but the forest was thick. His hands fell onto the handlebars, and he let his weight fall into the bike. He hunched over and pushed it over a lump in the patchy, roadside grass. He'd get back home, eventually. No, he'd get back. He couldn't really be home anymore.

The sun beat down on his neck, relentless and heavy on his skin. It was a smothering heat, like a thick, wet washcloth being pressed against one's nose and mouth. He kept his head down, watching each foot move ahead of the other one step at a time. His mouth hung loose as he pushed. His eyes struggled to stay open.

It was too hot. He gave the bike one last shove as he raised himself up. He looked down the road winding through the trees. The group was down there, just a few minutes away if he had a running vehicle. He cursed under his breath, running his hand across his wet forehead. The wrinkles on his knuckles and the lines of his palm were caked with dirt. He slid down on the ground beside the bike, leaning his head back against the seat. His eyes closed as he tilted his face towards the sky. The heat beat down on his eyelids, making the blackness behind them turn an intense red.

Rest came to him. He wasn't sure if he was fully asleep, but his thoughts had deteriorated into patchy, random dreamlike images. He saw Rick with an oil can in a garage at Alexandria. He saw his feet moving up the stairs of the prison. He saw a little cream cardigan folded up beside a tree trunk.

His eyes flew open. The little peace he had felt was gone. That cardigan, oh God, he could smell it. He could smell her. He could see those glossy blue eyes watching him. Those little fingers gliding over piano keys. And, oh goodness, that voice filling the funeral home.

His breathing was labored, and he clenched his eyes back shut. He couldn't let himself think about her. Yet his fingers moved to the knife hanging from his waist; they felt the leather edges and curves of its holster. He wasn't sure if sweat or tears was what was running down his cheeks. Probably both.

The static of the radio pulled his eyes open again. He hastily pulled it out of his pocket. "Hello?" he asked.

"D-yl," said a muffled voice.

"Say again," said Daryl. "That Maggie?"

"-aryl," said the voice again through the static.

"Maggie? You're not comin' through," said Daryl.

"Daryl!" said the voice, suddenly clear this time, as though the owner of the voice was sitting before him. A voice that was familiar.

He sat up straighter, pushing himself up from the ground with shaky wrists. "Who th' hell is this?" he asked, though he recognized the way the woman said his name.

Static. "I'm not gonna leave you!" Static again.

He clutched the radio with white knuckles, holding it as close to his mouth as he could. "Say again," he whimpered.

"Daryl," said the voice. No static this time. It came from behind.

He twisted around.

She stood between two trees, and Daryl was reminded of so much of her that had faded from his memory. He had forgotten the curve that the tip of her nose formed with her nostrils. He had forgotten the way her bangs fell when the rest of her hair was in a ponytail. He had forgotten the way she held her feet when she stood still. But now she was clear, there in front of him.

He stumbled backwards, hearing himself let out a few strangled whimpers. She took a step forward, her face scrunched similarly to Daryl's in tears. Her hand reached out to the man whose chest was heaving, rising and falling with every loud, rocky, exhale.

"Naw...naw…" he whimpered.

Beth let out a sob, coming close enough now that the tips of her outstretched fingers brushed his arm.

With her touch, he collapsed into her.

He was a wave, waiting, waiting, waiting, before crashing, rolling. His arms fell around Beth in an instant, yanking her towards him and cradling her into his chest. His whimpers were muffled in the hair that his hands could not stay out of. Her arms clung to his back as she buried her face in his shoulder, burrowing into the fabric of his sleeveless button-up.

"How th' hell…" whimpered Daryl into Beth's hair.

She shook her head. "That doesn't matter right now," she said. She pulled back from the embrace to look into Daryl's eyes. Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

"Fr'what?" asked Daryl, sniffing, slowing and lightly running his hands along her back and arms in disbelief.

"I left you," said Beth matter-of-factly.

Daryl exhaled in three short breaths and shook his head. "You never left me," he mumbled.

Beth tilted her head, letting her bangs fall back from her forehead. Her lips turned slowly upwards into a smile, while tears still rolled out from the corners of her eyes.

Daryl's eyebrows raised and tilted away from each other as he looked down at the girl, taking in details he didn't realize he had been aching for. Then he did it. He did what he thought he would never get the chance to do ever again.

His movement was quick, sudden. His head moved down towards hers, and in an instant their lips were connected. Hers were as soft as he had figured they would be in the moments he had guiltily let his mind wander. He wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, pulling her into him like she would blow away at any time.

He was sloppy, frantic, with his kisses. It was as if he was struggling to combine all the missed opportunities over the long days and longer nights into this one moment. Beth clenched her eyes shut, grabbing onto Daryl's shirt and kissing him back with a similar hurriedness. Their bangs fell into each other, tangling. They didn't care, they didn't even notice. For each, the only thing that was real was the other.

Daryl's eyes opened. He was sitting on the ground, the bike seat pressing into his back, his forearms resting against his knees. His eyes looked around him. The trees were still. The heat danced in short, faroff waves along the surface of the highway. He was alone.


End file.
